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We are getting presents from our loyal friends and relatives who understand how serious this play is. It is a work in progress but Phil keeps chipping away at it. He keeps revising and listening and revising. Our fabulous actors believe in it. As do the people who saw it at the Port Washington library. Well, people who are supportive are going out of their way to shower us with Marilyn Monroe memorabilia. It is truly lovely for us. And there goes our vows not to accumulate. But really, who cannot accumulate? Life is full of stuff and these gifts are clever and thoughtful and very appreciated! And we are still very much ALIVE!!!

No wonder our publications, including headlines on CNN have mistakes. Editing is HARDER than writing. It took me my whole life to write my story because in order to tell it, I had to live it. It took me three years to physically write it. It is taking me FOREVER to review it and edit it. I swear this is my 20th time editing. Five additional pair of eyes have combed for mistakes and I do not feel confident yet. Anyone want to read my manuscript and look again? HELP!!!

My granddaughter was turning two. My daughter asked my grandson what he thought his younger sister would like for a birthday present. Without hesitating, he said: “I think she would like a plastic penis!” I have a friend who was raised in a traditional Italian family. My friend used to complain that her parents never listened to her but they ALWAYS listened when her older brother spoke. I told her to get a plastic penis and put in on the table. I told her I could not guarantee that they would listen, but that I bet it would get their attention.

I very, recently, had to have an ultrasound on my wrist. The young technician looked like she belonged in high school. When she left me in the room to wait for the doctor, I questioned what I was doing. Maybe I should leave and rethink. The radiologists in the city were older. The technician seemed more experienced. I have known them for fourteen years. They are so sophisticated. I was sweating profusely when the doctor came in. He looked like he was younger than my daughter but he had some gray in his beard. He introduced two young residents who looked like they were applying to college. “I probably know your mothers,” I blurted out of nowhere. So then I had to explain that all my friends had children who were doctors at this hospital. “I live in ____,” I continued. “So do I,” said this nice, young doctor. “So I do know your mother?” I asked incredulously. “I don’t think you do,” he explained, ” I did not grow up there.” He told me where he lived and as he asked me if I was in pain. I let myself relax, as I watched the screen, as he guided a needle deep into my wrist to aspirate a cyst. “Don’t worry,” I reassured him, “you can still say hello to me in the local supermarket.” He, relaxed, in turn, and smiled. And just to be safe, I added: “I know where you live.”

During intermission I run to try to be at the head of the line – the line to the women’s bathroom.It is a common joke about the women’s bathroom during intermission.There are hundreds of women waiting to get into the very limited stalls.I look at everyone in front of me.I turn and look behind me.I see a sea of heads.The women are all middle aged.Their hair is dyed or gray or a combination of gray roots showing at the base of dyed hair.The faces are wrinkled.Some have stopped trying to cover up.Others have way too much make up on.The baby boomers are supporting the matinees, I realize.All of our children are at work.Has this always been the way? WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO BROADWAY WHEN THE BABY BOOMERS ARE NO LONGER ABLE TO ATTEND?